Drabbles
by Bag Of Badgers
Summary: What the title says. Little drabbles connected by the theme of Germany and Italy being dorks. K as K can be (usually).
1. Prepare to Embrace Your Creator!

Germany was unable to decide if this was better or worse than the time Veneziano had decided that unearthing Germany's ancient collection of cheap romance novels and reading them out loud in _interesting _voices was a good idea, but judging from the insane grin on America's face as he passed out papers to the rest of the assembled, it would probably be worse.

The annual G8-plus-China-because-we-don't-want-to-make-him-an gry-and-he-brings-sweets sleepovers usually got worse, however, and maybe reading wouldn't be too bad.

Until Germany looked at the papers he had received.

And looked at them again.

Turned them sideways.

He could still read English, right? Then what in God's name was this?

Glancing around, China and France seemed to be having much the same problem, Japan's face had gone wooden, Veneziano and Russia were already snickering, and England and Canada suddenly groaned "Oh, God, not _this _again" in nearly perfect unison.

America sat down on his sleeping bag, clearing his throat. "All right, everyone. Here's the rules. We're gonna read this out loud, in a circle, exactly the way it's written _including typos and all adjectives _and as soon as you start laughing your turn's over. Also if you get through more than a page your turn's over by default or you have to keep going after inhaling helium-"

France cut him off. "We don't have any."

"No helium? This party sucks. Anyway, so those're the rules and does anybody have questions? No? Great." America looked around again. "Um. Canada, you're starting."

Canada sighed in the manner of a particularly long-suffering sibling, and Germany would know about that. "All right."

He took a deep breath.

"The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large— l-large— oh man." Canada snickered. "Sorry. Russia, your turn."

Russia cleared his throat, smiling distantly. "Large portions of the Norgolian—" He squinted. "Nor-go-li-an— Empire. Age-worn hoof prints smothered…"

Russia was _good_ at this, unnervingly so, but "three heaving mounts" got a chuckle and then it passed to Veneziano.

This will be short, Germany thought. Veneziano had a talent for suddenly breaking into giggles anyway without phrases like— he had skipped ahead without regard for his sanity— "his shock of fiery red hair tossing robustly" or, for that matter, names like "Grignr".

Veneziano began. "—In blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome…"

So far so good, and then.

Dialogue.

Germany suddenly remembered Veneziano's propensity for doing funny voices, and so did Japan, and they shared a slightly panicked look before Veneziano squeaked "'Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of hell, barbarian,'" in a quite impressive falsetto. And then there was suddenly a shift several octaves down, nearly at Sweden levels of bass, for "'Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch!'" and then a quite game attempt at pronouncing a name with only one vowel in it, which must have been difficult for him. Veneziano managed to hang on until "his rippling right arm thrust forth," laughed, and passed it—

—to Germany.

Damn.

He'd rather been hoping to be passed over, but if even Canada got a turn, then he'd have to go.

"—sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers vital regi—_organs_, vital _organs_. Sorry." He could hear the cackles of Prussia from here, and also a great wave of relief that nobody had invited him.

Not laughing until "The enthused barbarian" was quite an accomplishment, considering the earlier mentions of "crimson droplets of escaping life fluid".

To Japan. Who kept a straight face until "Grignr's emerald green orbs stared lustfully at the wallowing soldier—"

-to China, who barely managed a sentence before handing off to France—

-oh God, France.

France had definitely played this before, or something like it, and finished off the chapter, lasting until "her stringy orchid twines of hair swaying gracefully over the lithe opaque nose", at which point his professional cheap-romance-novel-reader voice gave out.

England didn't even try.

America managed well enough until "a loin cloth brandishing a long steel broad sword" sent him into a giggling fit.

By the time it had come around to Veneziano again, there was something that possibly could have been a sex scene going on, although it could also have been enthusiastic hugging.

God.

The _voices_. Even when nobody was actually talking, Veneziano still did voices and had specific faces to go along with them, and the one he made for "caressed her firm protruding busts" was a sight to behold.

As Veneziano managed to get past the word "thews" without losing it, which had obviously been a struggle, Germany wondered what would have happened if Romano had been here.

He ended up having to pick up at "segregated torso", and decided that, considering the way America fell sideways at his attempt to do voices for— _Grignr_? Germany still wasn't very sure about that— perhaps this wasn't a horrible game.

He still wouldn't invite Prussia, though.

* * *

All text quoted from "The Eye of Argon" is verbatim. You cannot make this shit up.


	2. On Rainy Beaches

The weather was curiously inclement for the summer, but at least they'd brought an umbrella.

Veneziano grinned, rolling off the towel. "Isn't it nice, Germany?"

"Um." Was rain at the beach nice? It certainly hadn't struck Germany as the type of weather that Veneziano would prefer, or the type that was accepted at beaches, but it was rather… soothing, he supposed. Quiet. Less likely to leave him with large sunburns.

Veneziano wasn't exactly listening, instead having decided to roll around in the sand like some sort of overgrown puppy. "It's great! Nobody else comes when it's like this so it's all private and I don't have to worry about tripping on grandmas or getting in trouble if I lose my swimsuit or kicking sand in people's food on accident and it's just. Nice." He had rolled full circle, and landed with his head on Germany's leg, a little sodden and scratchy. "Don't you think so?"

"It— it is not an opinion I have considered before, but I can see your logic and—"

"So yes?" Veneziano smiled up at him dopily, sprawled on the damp sand.

"Yes."

"Wanna go for a walk?" Veneziano rolled off of him, shaking off sand, and extended a hand which wasn't really necessary to get Germany off the ground and, indeed, made Veneziano stagger backwards a little.

Germany brushed sand off his pants and took Veneziano's hand and they set off down the empty shore, and he resigned himself to a soggy afternoon— although not as soggy as Veneziano's, since a play-fight along the way ended up with him getting shoved into the surf, which he took with a smile and a handful of sand down Germany's shirt— and an evening with Veneziano's favored methods of warming up, which were more… acceptable when they were on vacation and could sleep in, and Germany decided that yes, rain at the beach was quite pleasurable after all.


	3. bleiben

Veneziano can tell that this is going to be fun, although probably not for Germany considering how many other people are in the room and can hear him if they try.

Hopefully nobody's going to try, and it'd be difficult anyway, since Germany had stuck his face into the side of Veneziano's neck, wrapped his arms around his waist, and just… stayed there. Mumbling.

Veneziano pats his head rather absent-mindedly, enjoying how Germany leans into his hand and raises his voice a little. He's pretty sure he hears "liebling" somewhere in the mumbling, and grins to himself. Germany tilts his head just enough to look up at him, and he actually looks pretty adorable, all flushed and wide-eyed and smiling, and Veneziano pulls him up just enough to kiss him on the cheek.

Germany appears to take this as incentive to try to right himself for long enough to pull Veneziano into his lap, nuzzling into the side of his head, and settles again, still smiling. "Y're really cute," he says in a sort of vague, cheerful tone. "I _like_ you."

Veneziano replies in kind, and Germany makes a happy, humming sort of sound and falls back into the mumbling.

That's definitely "liebling" that he's saying. And then "stay".

"Of course!" Veneziano smiles broadly.

Germany pulls back again, bumps noses with Veneziano, and ends up kissing him.

This _is_ going to be fun, or will be if Romano leaves the room before he notices.


	4. eis, ghiaccio

Ludwig's not an _amazing_ ice skater, not like Ivan who can do complicated things with 'triple' in front of them that sound like car parts, but he's really quite graceful in a very… streamlined sort of way. Which isn't fair, because Feliciano can't go three feet without wobbling and grabbing onto the railing and he's slipped _twice_ and now his butt is really cold and so are his gloved hands and this isn't very fun.

He manages to struggle back onto his feet and move a few more steps, and then Ludwig skates to a stop next to him.

"Need help?"

"No—" —he wobbles dangerously— "—yes."

Ludwig offers him a hand, and Feliciano grabs onto it before he falls over again. He manages to stay upright this time, but balks before Ludwig can pull him further out into the rink. "Lud that is not a good idea."

"Yes, it is." Ludwig takes Feliciano's other hand. "Just follow what I do."

Staring at Ludwig's feet and trying to mirror their actions, Feliciano takes a few steps away from the railing— and nearly falls backwards. "Aah!"

"Careful!"

"I'm trying!" Feliciano realizes the problem— Ludwig is moving backwards and Feliciano was watching him and tried to move backwards as well which is _not_ a good idea, and he tries to think backwards enough to move forwards which kind of makes his head hurt but then Ludwig says "You're doing better" and Feliciano notices that he's not wobbling quite as much anymore. He cocks his head a little, smiling.

They manage to dodge several other ice-skaters but Feliciano doesn't fall over and that's the important thing, but then—

—Ludwig lets go of one of his hands and moves to his side and Feliciano lurches again but actually rights himself this time, and they continue forward, Feliciano keeping one eye on Ludwig's feet so that they stay in step.

He thinks his butt has dried out by now, and his hands feel less cold, and there's the hint of a smile on Ludwig's face, and Feliciano doesn't fall over again until they have to stop, and Ludwig catches him that time anyway.

And then falls over.


	5. displacement

warning: ptsd and mentions of world war nastiness

* * *

sometimes germany doesn't know where he is

it's because he's in too many places at once

sometimes he wakes up and he doesn't know—_home in bed and fire comes raining down on the city, so much, suffocating what it doesn't burn—barely asleep in a scratched-out hole on the frozen steppe and the alarm sounds but there are already too many soldiers everywhere—dragged out of the house by black-clad police in the night and he knows where he's going—_and he launches upright, shaking and sweating and disoriented

sometimes he hears a door slam and—_the guns fire 33,771 times and there are still some alive beneath the others oh—god—crack-crack of artillery fills every waking hour he'll go mad if he can't get out—_freezes solid because is he here is he in a ukrainian ravine is he in a trench in france

(once he went to america because america wanted to show him the sights (wanted to keep him in awe, you are in ruins but i am untouched, see my pristine buildings and well-fed people) and had gone to a july fourth party and the _fireworks_—

he'd bolted before anyone could see the tears)

sometimes the smell of meat cooking

something on the radio

looking outside

makes him forget where he is—_every single one of the twenty-four gouges across his back—legs blown off twice—coming back from under piles of dead or inches of mud or rubble of his cities—_until he's gasping for breath and trembling and curling in on himself

sometimes, though

just sometimes

(more often now)

veneziano is there

and when it happens germany wants to hide in shame—_rice factories and cephalonia—don't show weakness you should not be weak—_but veneziano takes his hands and brings him back, wraps blankets around him and gives him tea and honestly veneziano is not good at making tea

but when germany drinks the weak brew and feels veneziano's warm frame leaning against him

for those moments he's in one place

* * *

the first three flashbacks: firebombing of dresden, something on the eastern front, and everyone knows what the gestapo did

33,771: the amount of jews killed in the babi yar ravine outside kiev

24: amount of death/concentration/holding camps in germany proper

rice factory: the riseria di san sabba in trieste was used as a prison for enemies of the reich

cephalonia: also the massacre of the acqui division, the wehrmacht massacred a bunch of italian soldiers in greece after the italian surrender


	6. feli isn't the only one with puppy eyes

There were three items of consolation Veneziano could draw from this event.

One, Germany had agreed to house-train and walk them.

Two, he got to name one and compromise on another's name.

Three, they were _cute_. Really, _really cute._ Cute enough that Prussia would probably have some kind of brain aneurysm from it.

Anyway, he'd got to name Enrico, because his long, thin face and pale eyes had reminded him of the old doge (and privately, Veneziano thought he was _definitely_ the smartest), and Germany had named Berlitz, and they'd eventually decided, after much debate, that the third puppy could just get named by America since neither of them could agree on anything.

America had gone and named the third puppy Elvis.

They'd only planned to get one, though, but there was this _look_ Germany had got in his eyes, all shiny, the type Veneziano knew he got when he was really _really_ happy about something, and honestly it was about as easy for Veneziano to resist as it was for Germany to resist Veneziano's puppy-dog eyes: impossible. And the only-one-dog had turned into all-right-maybe-two and then finally three-but-no-more-_I-mean-it!_-stop-making-that-face-yes-you-are-making-a-face-d on't-try-to-lie-to-me-Germany.

(There was even a fourth item of consolation: coming home on Germany's day off and seeing him asleep on the floor with puppies curled up on top of him was even cuter than just puppies, and just as much fun to hug.)

* * *

(history notes in a 500 word story about puppies gee whiz: enrico dandolo was a doge, or leader, of the venetian empire, one of the most famous, completely blind, and led the siege and sack of constantinople in the fourth crusade)


	7. adler und hund

Veneziano drew one finger along the edge of a wing, humming in interest.

Germany just didn't seem like the kind of person to have tattoos, and it was a little odd to see the black eagle spread across his back between the shoulderblades, over old scars and the swoop of his spine, and Veneziano wasn't sure whether the slight trembling in his stomach was from the fact that it was there or the fact that this was the first time he'd seen it. All the other times he'd seen Germany shirtless had been from the front, from barging in on him during showers, and that had been plenty good-looking but there'd been no hint of a black eagle.

"Is that new?"

Germany's shoulders were hunched, and his ears had gone red. "No."

The silence seemed to be enough incentive for Germany to continue. "I got really, really drunk with Upper Saxony and Thuringia in the seventies."

"Oh." Veneziano traced his fingers around the feathers at the bottom of the wing and along one stylized talon, smiling to himself when Germany shivered a bit.

Truth be told, Germany didn't seem the type, Bundesrepublik Deutschland or no. He wasn't… eaglelike. He wasn't wiry muscle and airy thoughts and scratchy voice like Prussia, pride and cruelty like his leaders had once wanted; he was broad shoulders and deep baritones and powerful muscles, loyalty and obedience and intelligence.

That didn't make the stifled noise Germany made when Veneziano trailed fingers down his spine and around to his abdomen and down again any less interesting, though.

Veneziano, he decided, was definitely going to acquaint himself more with Germany's back, starting right now.


	8. Conversations

It always takes them a long time to get through dinner.

This has been a constant ever since their very first date, when Feliciano's hands had run away with him and he'd signed his way through two-thirds of a lecture on Byzantine mosaics before remembering himself. All he'd known about Ludwig then was he and Lovino knew him from signing classes and Lovino didn't like him and plus he was really attractive and probably didn't care at all about mosaics, even Byzantine ones.

What he knows about Ludwig now is a lot more than that, but Lovino still doesn't like him and he's still really really attractive and he's actually pretty interested in art, at least when Feliciano's explaining it. Also on their second date Ludwig had started going on about how they'd discovered some evidence of bacteria on Mars which meant there definitely could be life on other worlds and then retracted his hands and looked sheepish (he'd said later, _I didn't know much about you except you and your brother were in my signing classes and you were considerably attractive and probably didn't care about Martian bacteria_).

The thing is, Feliciano honestly didn't care about whether or not he'd cared about Martian bacteria before, but he _did_ care about watching the way Ludwig's large hands curved themselves around the words (and the way he'd started smiling the tiniest bit when Feliciano had begun asking questions).

So their dinner conversations last far longer than the parts where they're actually eating, and occasionally Ludwig stops to correct Feliciano—_you have to lean your head like this; you sign that twice_—which is good since he only started learning a few years ago, after Lovino's accident, and Ludwig isn't rude about it or anything.

Eventually they do get around to finishing their dinner, and Ludwig usually handles the washing-up, and Feliciano dries, and they bump hands as Ludwig sets dishes down and Feliciano picks them up.

They lie on the couch afterwards, curled up against each other, and sign lazily _well see the thing with Cretan art is it was kind of Italian and kind of Byzantine and so they really had their own art style it was really cool—the oceans would've been really saline but there are types of microorganisms that can survive that_, and once or twice Ludwig laughs, which is a lovely sound—deep and a little loud—and as they reluctantly unfold to go to bed, he takes Feliciano's hand in his own large ones and kisses it quickly.

Their conversations are long, and take longer, but who ever said that was a bad thing?


	9. noise in the hands

There's a very limited space for their hands to move, tangled as their bodies are in the blankets and each other, but they've managed this for years and why stop now?

_So what do you want to do today?_

_I thought we could just take the day off._

_Great. Breakfast?_

_Later._

_Coffee. Now._

_You are a grown man and can get up and make your own coffee perfectly well._

_But I don't want to._

And they've really had this same conversation for years too because Feliciano will absolutely not move from bed unless the house is on fire or aliens are attacking, and Ludwig always makes him coffee anyway, and when he gets up Feliciano does the little silent laugh he always does—huff air through the nose, grinning so hard his eyes close and crease—and then burrows under the blankets.

_Can you talk to me? _ Feliciano signs when Ludwig comes back with the coffee, and he says "yes" and slides back under the covers, glad for the warmth to his freezing toes (which he is not going to poke Feliciano with as a joke because that will make him spill the coffee which would be a mess), and Feliciano sits against the headboard and signs _Just talk about whatever_.

And Ludwig does, about the time Francis invited him over for a family dinner and the time Gilbert nearly blew up his bedroom after discovering chemistry, and Feliciano huff-laughs and says _And what did Arthur do then?_ and _He must have really liked his science teacher, then_ and _oh, that reminds me of the one time Antonio got convinced there was a missile silo under the high school_, and Ludwig's hands unconsciously move in time with his words because maybe he can speak but he's been signing since the day five years ago when the cute man sitting next to him in the History of Architecture class had written notes to him and one of them had been "i'm trilingual english/italian/asl" and Ludwig had written back "why asl" and the cute man had written "because i can't talk my vocal chords don't work right" and that afternoon Ludwig had checked out a book on learning American Sign Language and he'd written the next day "would you mind helping teach me asl i'd like to learn" and how had it ended up like this?

Not that he's complaining, not at all, because there is no way to complain about the man snuggling into his side, warm skin and stubbly jaw and a pair of the noisiest hands Ludwig has ever seen (never still, always signing or drawing or writing or just tapping on things), no way to complain about anything more than occasionally leaving wet towels on the floor because how could he complain about this?

Not with his mouth, not with his hands, not with any part of him.


	10. Offers

(warning for vaguely sexual content/fade to black/whatever you want to call it)

* * *

This can't be the hardest thing he's ever talked about, but it is definitely up there.

"Well, uh, see, the thing is. The thing is. it has come to, um, my attention that when we have had…sexual relations in the past, I have been the. Um. The one on top."

And it would be better if Feliciano weren't grinning at him, and if he knows where this is going_which he does because that is the face he always makes when he knows where this is going_ he could just step in right about now and save Ludwig a little embarrassment.

But he doesn't.

"And since that does not strike me as, er, particularly fair, I was wondering if you'd like to. . Soon."

He really shouldn't be this embarrassed, either, it's just a question after all, but what if Feliciano thinks it's weird that he wants to—to bottom, or—

"—That sounds wonderful!"

—or that. That could work too.

Feliciano scoots closer to him on the couch. "So do you want to do it now or after dinner or later or what?"

"Y-you don't think it's weird?"

"It's not weird!" Feliciano scoots even closer. "I like it, it feels good, and trying it with you would be great so do you want to try now or later?"

"Now would be all right." Ludwig pecks Feliciano on the cheek quickly, still blushing.

And when Feliciano quite nearly jumps into his lap and starts kissing him, it's not the most difficult thing he's done at all, not by any stretch of the means.

_And_ it does end up being pretty good, too.


	11. Road Home

Feliciano's still got his coat and scarf on, even though the car is heated. Ludwig chalks this up to jetlag, he'd flown over from Canada because they'd wanted him to accompany the rest of the diplomats and then he'd had to get on the train up to Berlin almost immediately and now he's pulled the seatbelt to its limits trying to crawl into Ludwig's lap.

Ludwig's also not got a lot of sleep lately, the endless cycle of budget meetings has intensified, and he's wrapped an arm around Feliciano (he's not letting Feliciano take off the seatbelt, though, there are _rules_) and rested his head against Feliciano's.

Opening one tired eye, Feliciano looks up at him, mumbling "_Mi sei mancato_" and burying his face in the crook of Ludwig's neck, trying to edge off of the middle seat and closer to Ludwig.

"_Ich hab' dich auch vermisst_," Ludwig mutters back, one hand fiddling with the edge of Feliciano's dark red scarf—a going-away present, and it's a bit lumpy and uneven since Ludwig's really not much of a knitter, but Feliciano seems to like it anyway.

Feliciano keeps talking even though he's obviously exhausted, about how his bed's always too big and cold without Ludwig there, and he misses the ginger cookies, and Matthew is nice but his pancakes aren't the _same_, and his voice is nearly inaudible.

"Anything you'd like to share with the class?"

Gilbert has no right to be that awake, Ludwig thinks momentarily, but there's no malice in it, and he makes a noise of vague dismissal.

The funny thing is, Gilbert's voice is a little quieter than normal.

Feliciano's gone quiet, pulling his scarf and the collar of his coat a little higher and letting Ludwig take his hands to warm them up.

"'N the train food was really bad," he mutters. "You have any food?"

"Not on me."

Feliciano groans in discontent and starts clumsily trying to go through Ludwig's coat pockets in search of any food he might have lied about.

Gilbert snickers in the driver's seat.

Ludwig grabs Feliciano's wrists.

Feliciano yawns.

The car drives on.

* * *

mi sei mancato: i missed you; ich hab' dich auch vermisst: i missed you too


End file.
